Marina read the discharge summary for the third time.
“Fracture of the femoral neck, post-endoprosthetic replacement condition, constant care required, independent living ruled out.”
Her mother was lying in the hospital bed, staring somewhere past her—at a poster about flu prevention.
“Have you called Svetochka?” she asked instead of saying hello.
Marina folded the paper.
“Hello, Mom. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. So did you call her or not?”
“I will.”
“You always say that. And then it turns out you haven’t done anything.”
Marina sat down on the visitor’s chair. Her legs were aching—she had come here straight from work, across all of Moscow, two hours in traffic. Sveta lived forty minutes from this hospital by car with a driver.
That evening Marina called her sister. The phone rang for a long time, then Svetlana rejected the call. She called back twenty minutes later.
“What happened? I was at a massage.”
“Mom is being discharged tomorrow. She can’t live alone. Not at all. She needs care for at least six months.”
Svetlana was silent for a moment.
“Well, you’re closer. And your schedule is flexible.”
“I work five days a week, and it takes me an hour to get to work.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not like my situation. I can’t get distracted from clients. Oleg has partners, we constantly host people. And you’re just an accountant. The numbers can wait.”
Marina gripped the phone tightly. She had worked at a design institute for twenty-three years. First as an ordinary accountant, now as deputy chief accountant. Sveta had called it “shuffling papers” all her life.
“I have a two-room apartment. Forty-three square meters.”
“And we’ve just finished renovating. We put eight million into it. What, do you want Mom to smear everything at our place? Besides, she has a difficult personality. Oleg can’t stand her after that incident at the birthday party.”
“So you won’t take her.”
“Marin, don’t start. These conversations give me migraines. Mom always loved you. You’re her favorite daughter, so…”
Marina gave a bitter laugh.
“I’m the favorite?”
“Of course. She only talks about you. Marina this, Marina that. Marina’s husband doesn’t drink. And she only hisses at me that I waste money.”
“Sveta, in forty years she has never once told me I did anything well. But she bought you a car for university. Paid for your wedding. Gave you money for the down payment on your apartment.”
“That’s different. You didn’t need anything. You were always independent. All right, Marin, I have to go.”
She hung up.
Sergey came out of the room.
“Sveta won’t take her?”
“No.”
He sat beside her and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Marin, understand me correctly. I respect your mother. But if she moves in here, in a month there won’t be a family left. She eats you alive. Every time she comes for two days, you need a week to recover afterward.”
Marina knew it. Her mother knew how to look at her cooking, her hairstyle, her husband in such a way that Marina wanted to sink through the floor.
“You wear that to work? Well, well.”
“Your Seryozha is a good man, of course, but he could have grown into a boss by now.”
“So much dust. I was at Sveta’s—she has a maid twice a week.”
Marina picked up her mother three days later. There was no choice—the hospital could not keep her in a social bed any longer, and Svetlana had not called back once.
The taxi was expensive—four thousand two hundred from Lyublino to Mitino. Her mother complained about bumps the whole way.
At home, Sergey had already unfolded the sofa in the large room. He and Marina moved into the small one, twelve square meters. Before their grown son had started his own family and moved out, it had been the nursery; afterward, they had turned it into a cramped study.
Her mother inspected the apartment as if seeing it for the first time.
“When did you put up this wallpaper? In the time of Tsar Pea?”
“Five years ago, Mom.”
“That’s what I’m saying. And your kettle is so dirty. Sveta buys a new one every month.”
Marina silently put the water on.
She did not remember the first week—only endless rushing around: bring this, hand me that, switch the channel, listen to complaints. Her mother demanded attention constantly. At night she could call Marina just to hand her a glass of water that was within arm’s reach. She criticized the food: bland, not enough salt, overcooked, why not like Sveta’s. She complained about Sergey: he walked heavily, the television was loud, he could at least say hello properly.
Sergey did say hello. Every day. Her mother simply did not hear him.
“You are ungrateful,” she told Marina on the eighth day, when Marina refused to switch the channel away from football. “I raised you. I did everything for you and Sveta, and now you won’t let me watch television.”
“Mom, Seryozha has one day off a week.”
“And I’m in prison every day. Sveta would have bought me a separate television.”
Work became harder and harder. Marina kept asking to leave early—either to take her mother to the doctor or to go home and check if everything was all right. Hiring a caregiver cost at least sixty thousand a month. Together, after mortgage and utilities, she and Sergey had one hundred thirty thousand left.
Marina called her sister.
“A caregiver?” Svetlana repeated. “Why? You’re home.”
“I’m at work for eight hours. At least half, Sveta. Thirty thousand.”
There was a pause.
“Marin, we’re going through a difficult period right now. Oleg took a car on credit, and I’m going to treatments. Very expensive ones. Maybe in a couple of months.”
After that conversation, Marina sat in the kitchen and cried for the first time in many years. Quietly, so her mother would not hear and say she was creating drama over nothing again.
In the third week, her mother started talking about the apartment.
“I’m just wondering,” she said over dinner. “What will happen to my apartment? It’s sitting empty. Maybe rent it out?”
It was reasonable. A one-room apartment on Preobrazhenka, near the metro. They could get forty or fifty thousand a month. Enough for a caregiver.
“Let’s post an ad,” Marina said. “I’ll help.”
Her mother looked at her strangely.
“I’m just thinking out loud.”
But a week later she said:
“Sveta called. She says some documents need to be signed. For the apartment.”
That evening Marina could not stand it and called Svetlana herself.
“What documents?”
“Mom didn’t tell you?” Svetlana sounded carefree. “We settled everything three years ago. Mom gave me the apartment. A deed of gift, all official.”
Something inside Marina snapped.
“What?”
“Yes. Mom decided it would be safer that way. What if she, well, you know, and then you and I started dividing it? She always helped me, and I took out the loan for my first apartment in her name. So we exchanged things. It’s all fair.”
“Wait. Mom’s apartment has been yours for three years? And she lives with me because she has nowhere of her own to live?”
“I didn’t take anything. Mom wanted it herself. Listen, I have to go. Oleg is calling.”
She hung up.
Marina went into the large room. Her mother was watching a TV series. When she saw Marina, she pressed pause with an irritated sigh.
“Mom, you gave the apartment to Sveta.”
Her mother did not look away.
“So what?”
“And now you live with me. Because you have nowhere to live.”
“I live with you because you are my daughter.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why should I? It’s none of your business.”
Marina sat down on a chair.
“I took you into my home. I damaged my relationship with my husband. I almost lost my job. And it turns out the apartment has belonged to Sveta for a long time.”
Her mother grimaced.
“You always turn everything into a tragedy.”
“Why did you give it to Sveta and not divide it equally?”
“Because Svetochka needed it more. She has expectations. And you’re used to things. You’re fine as you are.”
Unpretentious. Used to it. Marina had heard that her whole life. Sveta had expectations; Sveta needed help. Marina was strong, she would endure. Sveta got the first piece, the new dress, money for university. Marina got what was left.
“Why did you always choose Sveta?”
“I never chose anyone. Sveta simply needed help, and you didn’t. Svetochka was tired, and you were used to it.”
“I’m tired too, Mom.”
“Oh, stop it. What, are you sorry to give your mother a corner?”
“I’m not talking about the apartment. You live with me, and you gave the apartment to Sveta. Sveta isn’t helping with a single ruble. Don’t you think something is wrong here?”
Her mother looked away.
Marina suddenly understood: no, she did not think so. Her mother believed Marina would take care of her for free, out of daughterly duty. And Sveta would receive the apartment money—because Sveta was used to receiving. It had always been that way.
“Sveta, we need to talk,” Marina said on Saturday morning.
“Again?”
“Are you planning to rent out Mom’s apartment?”
Svetlana was silent.
“Oleg and I were thinking of renting it out for the summer. Why?”
“The money goes to Mom. A caregiver or a daytime care home.”
“Are you out of your mind? That’s my money.”
“Then take Mom to your place.”
“I already explained…”
“Sveta, either the rental money goes to Mom, or Mom moves in with you.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! Oleg and I will decide ourselves. You’re just jealous. You were always jealous that my life turned out well.”
“I had a normal life. I did.”
“Well then throw her out onto the street if you’re so principled!”
“I’ll throw her out to you. You are the owner of her apartment.”
“Go to hell, Marina!” her sister shrieked.
At that moment Sergey, who was standing nearby and had heard the entire conversation on speakerphone, gently but decisively took the phone from Marina.
“Listen carefully, Sveta,” he said, his voice even, like metal. “If the rental money is not in the care home’s account tomorrow, I will personally bring your mother to the door of your elite renovation. And I will leave her there on the threshold. And I don’t care what your Oleg says. I’ll talk to him myself. Understood?”
He hung up without waiting for an answer and encouragingly squeezed his wife’s shoulder.
An hour later her mother called—from her mobile phone, from the next room.
“Svetochka called. She was in tears. She says your husband insulted and threatened her.”
“He told the truth.”
“What truth? That I’m a burden to you?”
“That Sveta should take responsibility. She received an apartment. I received nothing.”
“That’s unfair.”
Marina felt something angry and suffocating rise inside her.
“Unfair? What exactly—that I’m asking my sister to help?”
“Sveta deserved that apartment.”
“How?”
Her mother was silent.
“You were always strong,” she finally said. “You fell, got up, and went on. Sveta wasn’t like that. She needed support.”
“And I didn’t?”
“Everything came to you easily anyway. You managed on your own.”
Marina stood there and looked at her mother. She truly believed what she was saying. One daughter deserved things, the other did not. Not because of actions. Just because.
“All right, Mom. If that’s how it is.”
She left the room.
A care home was found a week later. Not in Moscow—in the Moscow region, forty minutes by commuter train. A room for two, a nurse around the clock, walks in the garden. Forty-five thousand a month.
Sveta gave in after Oleg’s very first conversation with Sergey. As it turned out, Oleg did not want to go to court, and the prospect of getting his mother-in-law inside his precious square meters frightened him to the point of trembling. The rent minus utilities began going regularly toward the care home.
True, karma caught up with Sveta faster than Marina expected. Literally one day before their mother’s move, Sveta sent an angry, poisonous message: the tenants she had hurriedly and greedily let into their mother’s apartment without proper checking turned out to be problematic. In the very first week, they forgot to turn off a faucet and badly flooded the neighbors below. Oleg had a huge scandal with Sveta over the enormous compensation sum.
Their mother learned about the care home on Sunday evening.
“So you’re giving me away after all.”
“I’m arranging proper care for you.”
“To an almshouse.”
“To a care home. I’ll visit every week.”
“Thank you, what an honor.”
Marina sat beside the bed.
“Mom. I can’t do this anymore. I have work, a husband, my own life. You don’t love me—don’t argue, I understood that long ago. I don’t know why. And I don’t want to force myself every day to hear that Sveta is better, that my kettle is dirty, and that my husband isn’t good enough. I loved you. Maybe I still do. But I never wanted to live with you again.”
Her mother was silent.
“It’s good there. The garden is beautiful, the staff is decent. Sveta will pay.”
“So you forced her after all.”
“Yes.”
“She won’t forgive you for that.”
“I know.”
“And I won’t forgive you.”
Marina nodded.
“That’s your right, Mom.”
She stood up and went to the door.
“The move is on Friday.”
Her mother did not answer. She only turned to face the wall.
On Friday morning Marina packed her mother’s things. Two suitcases. She left the photographs behind: most of them showed Svetlana. Sveta at graduation. Sveta at her wedding. Sveta with Oleg at the sea.
There were three photographs of Marina. Her school graduation, where she stood at the edge. Her own wedding—one photo, blurred. And that same old photo from the maternity hospital.
Her mother was already sitting in the wheelchair.
“Ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
The taxi was waiting in the courtyard. Near the car, her mother suddenly stopped. With trembling, dry fingers, she took out her phone and dialed a number. The rings went on endlessly. Then a cold, indifferent voicemail voice sounded:
“The subscriber is busy or outside the network coverage area.”
Her mother slowly lowered the hand holding the phone. Her face seemed to collapse.
“Sveta hasn’t come once. In three weeks… And she doesn’t answer the phone,” she whispered, barely moving her lips.
Marina said nothing. She helped her into the car and fastened her seat belt.
“Let’s go.”
The taxi pulled away, turned the corner, and disappeared.
Marina went back up to the apartment. Sergey was sitting in the kitchen, leaning on the table.
“She left?”
“She left.”
He stood, came over, and embraced her firmly and reliably, resting his chin on the top of her head. Marina closed her eyes, absorbing that warmth. She stood like that for a minute, then gently pulled away and went into the room.
The sofa stood unfolded, with crumpled bedding on it. Marina decisively grabbed the edge of the sheet and stripped it off. She bundled up the linen, carried it to the bathroom, and threw it into the washing machine, washing away the remnants of the last heavy weeks.
Then she returned to the room, sat at the desk, and opened her laptop. Her mother had been right about one thing—their old kettle was no good anymore. Marina went to an online store and, without hesitation, ordered a new one. The most beautiful, expensive, and modern one.
Then she opened a new tab with a hotel booking website. There was a vacation ahead, and this time she and Sergey would spend it only together. By the sea.
They deserved it.